The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [117]
“Where to, ma’am?” asks the taxi driver. He’s pegged her for a tourist, probably American; he doesn’t bother to get out and help her with the suitcase.
“Maho Beach Hotel, if you don’t mind.” She glances at him in the mirror: he’s got crow’s-feet around prematurely aged eyes, hair the color of damp newsprint.
“Okay. Twenty euros.”
“Got it.”
He starts the engine. Mo leans back and closes her eyes. She doesn’t let her fingers stray from the violin case, but to a casual onlooker she could be snoozing off a case of jet lag. In fact, when she’s not keeping a surreptitious eye open for tails, she’s working her way down a checklist she’s already committed to memory. Let’s see. Check in, phone home for a Sitrep, confirm Alan’s on site, then . . . a guilty frisson: off the roadmap. Find Bob. If necessary, find this Ramona person. Make sure Bob’s safe. Then figure out how to get him disentangled before it sucks him in too deep . . .
Anxiety keeps her awake every meter of the way to the hotel, drags her tired ass to the front desk for check-in:
“Mrs. Hudson? Your husband checked in this morning. He said you’d be arriving and to leave you a key to your suite.” The receptionist smiles mechanically. “Have a nice stay!”
Husband? Mo blinks and nods, making thankful sounds on autopilot. “Which room is he in?”
“You’re in 412. Elevators are left past the fountain.”
She rides the elevator upstairs in thoughtful silence. Husband? It’s not Bob. He wouldn’t pull a stunt like this without forewarning her. And it’s a suite: Laundry expense accounts don’t usually run that high. Alan Barnes? Or . . . ?
Mo pauses outside the door to room 412. She sets down her overnight bag on top of her suitcase, takes off her sunglasses and hat, and opens the violin case. She slides the card key into the lock with the same hand that grips the end of her bow, then nudges the door handle: by the time it’s half-open she has the violin raised to her chin and the bow poised above a string that seems to haze the air around it in a blue glow of Cerenkov radiation.
“Come on out where I can see you,” she calls quietly, then kicks the ungainly train of bags forwards through the door, steps forwards after it, and lets the door shut itself behind her.
“I’m over here.” The middle-aged white guy in the tropical suit isn’t Alan. He’s sitting in the office chair behind the hotel room desk, nursing a glass of something that probably isn’t water; he’s got a twelve-hour beard and he looks haggard. “You’re all that Angleton sent? Jesus.”
“What are you doing here?” Mo takes another step into the room, glancing sidelong through the doorways into the two bedrooms and the bathroom. “You’re not part of my cover.”
“Last minute change of plan.” He smiles lopsidedly. “You can put the violin down—what were you planning to do with it, make me dance?”
“Who are you?” Mo keeps the violin at the ready, its neck aimed at the interloper.
“Jack Griffin, P Division.” The station chief, she remembers. He waves at the room. “It’s all yours. Bit of a mess really.”
Mo’s left earring tingles. It’s a ward, attuned to warn her when someone’s being truthful. In her experience, the average human being tells a little white lie once every three minutes. Knowing when they’re telling the truth is much more useful than knowing when they aren’t. “So what are you doing here?” she asks tensely.
“There’s been a problem.” Griffin’s accent is clipped, very old-school-tie, and he sounds rueful. “Your predecessor ran into a spot of bother and Angleton asked me to take you in hand and make sure you didn’t follow his example.